by Leslie Wolfe
Right behind Howard Bukowsky followed a young woman, her face stained and smudged from tears and makeup. She blinked repeatedly, trying to adjust to the blinding light, while straightening her clothing. She’d obviously been sleeping on the concrete floor, like the rest of them, curled up in the dirty blankets their captors had thrown in their cells before slamming the doors shut. She seemed familiar, although she was too young to have been in medical research. Then she put on her jacket, bearing the Universal Air logo, the “X” with a curvy, extended left arm, and Gary immediately remembered her. She was one of the flight attendants, most likely the one servicing first class, if he remembered correctly.
The fourth to come out of the cell was a woman in her mid-fifties, needing some assistance to walk, which Dr. Bukowsky immediately offered, calling her “Dr. Crawford.” She looked pale and sick, too weak to walk.
One of the goons prodded her to move faster, and she groaned in pain.
“Hey,” Dr. Bukowsky said, holding her and helping her walk. “Take it easy, will ya’? She can’t move any faster, can’t you see?”
King Cobra resumed walking farther on the endless corridor, while the two Russians at the end of their procession talked angrily among themselves, gesturing toward the prisoners. Gary Davis didn’t understand a word they were saying. For the first time in his life, he regretted not studying Russian as an elective in school. He’d chosen French; not very useful under the circumstances.
“Where are you taking us?” Dr. Adenauer’s strong German accent echoed in the hallway. “I demand to know.”
The two Russians looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Vy yebat! You fuck! You demand to know? This is all you need to know,” the Russian continued, slamming the stock of his weapon in Adenauer’s back, making him keel over with a loud groan. Mallory picked him up quickly, in the roars of laughter sprinkled with expletives coming from the two Russians.
A few more yards, and another green massive door unlatched, its four detainees pushed outside in the blinding light.
Dr. Teng, from Taiwan, emerged with tears that streaked his face, and with hollow, expressionless eyes. His achievements in psychosomatic medicine and his latest research in brain imaging had made the thin, fragile man well-known in their circles. He was barely recognizable now.
Dr. Alastair Faulkner, a British national and the world’s foremost authority in regional and seasonal affective disorders, was grayish pale and a little unstable on his feet. He touched the walls a number of times to gain stability. Definitely not a good sign, and, by the sad, accepting look in his eyes, he was well aware of it.
Dr. Fortuin, Klaas Fortuin, if Gary remembered correctly the Dutch man’s first name, professor of biochemistry and neuropharmacology, held his spine upright, in typical Dutch manner. Gary remembered he’d read somewhere that the Dutch are tough, almost harsh in their parenting, being focused on building character and resilience in their offspring. Dr. Fortuin definitely displayed character and resilience in the face of adversity, walking tall and almost proud, calm, unfazed, as if not noticing he walked between two loaded machine guns, not reacting to the barrel of the AK47 bruising his left ribs.
The last to vacate the cell was their pilot, his uniform wrinkled and stained; most likely he’d slept in it despite how warm it was. As usual, Gary noticed the most unusual details for the respective moment, and that time he noticed the wear and tear on the man’s uniform. The sleeves shined at the elbows, and the cuffs were almost fringed with wear. That level of wear couldn’t have been from just three days of incarceration; that was months’ worth of daily use. There used to be glamour about a pilot’s job; apparently, not anymore.
Gary found himself counting the members of their group, as King Cobra had resumed his walk down the endless corridor. They were nine scientists and two flight crew. So far.
King Cobra opened a massive door, but this time gestured his followers to walk in. Gary entered a large room, organized as a makeshift lab. As soon as he stepped through the door, he found himself at the top of a five-step flight of descending stairs, leading to the main floor.
He hesitated a second, taking in everything in the huge lab. More than two hundred feet wide by maybe one hundred and fifty feet deep, the space had tall, dark gray, concrete walls, one of them curved, matching the curvature of the hallway they’d just walked through. The opposite wall had windows, placed at least ten feet high above the ground, with rusty frames holding dirty, almost completely opaque glass. The room seemed to be a part of a larger, round structure.
Rows of tile-covered tables lined up almost wall-to-wall, covered with equipment and chemicals. Autoclaves, incubators, Bunsen burners, and refrigerators took the first row of lab tables. Microscopes, scanners, centrifuges, a liquid chromatograph and a mass spectrograph lined another row of tables. Against the wall, there was a surprising collection of modern lab equipment: a Hitachi 917 automatic analyzer, a microscale, a recent model Belson biochemistry machine, Chinese but decent, state-of-the-art pharmacology analysis equipment, and a digital amalgamator. Some of the equipment was antiquated, but most of it was modern, the latest the industry had to offer.
Supplies were neatly organized and stored against the right wall, labeled in English. Almost forty feet of refrigerators filled with drugs, chemicals, reactives, and serums covered the wall. Past the refrigeration area, several tens of feet more continued with room-temperature shelving, holding thousands of drug formulations and chemical compounds. It was, by all appearances, a well-equipped lab. Where the hell were they? What was this place?
Some sleeping cots stood against the back wall, leading Gary to assume they wouldn’t be leaving the lab anytime soon. Simple, folding military cots, with dirty blankets on each one. In the far corner, an improvised separation for personal use, probably the Russian version of a port-a-potty. And everywhere, the same insufferable, inescapable, musty smell of moldy concrete.
“What is this place?” Dr. Chevalier whispered, her French accent stronger than usual.
“It’s a nuclear missile silo by the looks of it,” the pilot replied. “This facility is half-buried underground.”
“Nuclear?” Dr. Adenauer jumped in the conversation. “Does that mean there’s radiation here?”
“Oh, my God…” the flight attendant whispered, tears running freely from her red eyes.
“Quiet,” King Cobra shouted, punctuating his words by pounding his weapon into the ground. “No talking.”
A middle-aged man wearing a lab coat walked through the door and closed it. The noise of the massive door latching got everyone’s attention. They turned toward him.
“I am Dr. Bogdanov,” he said in harsh, heavily accented English. “This is your lab. You all work for me now.”
They shifted their weight nervously, some gasping, others wringing their hands.
Forced labor, Gary Davis found himself thinking, doing who knows what for the Russians. We are so fucked.
“Make no mistake,” Bogdanov continued. “If you are not worth keeping in the lab, we will use you as lab rats for the test batches. One way or the other, you will work for us.”
A deathly silence engulfed the small group. Bogdanov smiled, satisfied.
“Now get to work. Organize everything, make a list of what you’re missing, make sure you’re ready to produce the chemicals we need. Is that clear?”
No one replied. He waited a few seconds, then turned to leave.
“Dr. Bogdanov, if I may,” Dr. Bukowsky spoke, his Canadian politeness intact despite the circumstances. “We need insulin. Dr. Crawford is diabetic, and she ran out of supplies yesterday.”
Dr. Crawford grabbed Bukowsky’s sleeve, as if asking him to stay quiet.
“We will see about that,” Bogdanov replied. “How useful is she? What does she do?”
Someone gasped behind Gary. As if hypnotized, he heard himself speak.
“She is quintessential to any neurochemistry research,” Gary spoke cle
arly, calmly, and sounding sure of himself. Although he was making it up on the fly, he hoped he was right about the Russian’s intentions. “Her dissertations on the clinical aspects of applied psychopharmacology, and her fellowship experience with the University of Virginia make her irreplaceable to any drug study.”
Dr. Crawford looked at him with amazement, a hint of a smile fluttering on her lips as she mouthed, “Thank you.”
“I will bring insulin,” Bogdanov said. “Now, get to work.”
Dr. Faulkner, still weak on his legs, stumbled forward and said, “You can’t do this! You can’t force us to work for you! What kind of doctor are you?”
Bogdanov turned and stared at Dr. Faulkner in disbelief, then gestured at King Cobra with a swift head movement.
Cobra took three large steps and, as he reached Faulkner, struck him in the stomach with his knotted fist. Dr. Faulkner gasped, then keeled over, curled up on his side. He moved his legs spasmodically, and, as Gary and a couple of others rushed to assist him, he drew his last breath with a terrifying groan.
Gary put his fingers on Faulkner’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“He’s gone; probably a massive coronary,” he said bitterly. “Great job,” he turned and said to Cobra. “At this rate, you’ll kill us all before we do whatever the hell you got us here to do, you stupid fuck!”
Cobra took a step toward him, cussing in Russian, his face congested and scrunched in anger, wielding his fist in a threatening motion. Gary stood there, not even flinching. Que sera, sera, he thought, bracing himself for the beating that was to come.
Cobra’s fist never came down on him.
“Enough,” Bogdanov said, then left the lab, followed closely by his men.
...15
...Saturday, April 30, 6:25AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...San Diego International Airport
...San Diego, California
...Three Days Missing
Alex waited on the tarmac, oblivious to the early dawn coloring the sky with a reddish palette of hues, and to the fresh morning breeze. Her eyes scouted the runway, waiting for the plane to appear, worried about her friend, Blake Bernard. The calm and composed Blake, who held his own impeccably while transacting billions of dollars without breaking a sweat, would never give anyone seventeen missed calls. Yet he’d done just that.
The familiar silhouette of his Phenom 300 taxied quickly and came to a stop right in front of the VIP terminal, where she waited. The door opened immediately, and Blake stepped down, rushing toward her. She met him halfway, registering briefly how disheveled he looked. Dark circles under his eyes, clothing and hair in disarray. His signature elegance was completely gone, replaced by the aspect of deep distress.
“Alex,” he said in a broken voice, swallowing bitter sobs, and hugging her tightly.
“Blake, my goodness, what happened?”
“Adeline, my wife, she was on flight XA233,” he said, his face still buried in her shoulder, sobbing.
Her eyes welled up instantly. Adeline…oh, no!
“Oh, my God, Blake, I am so sorry! Please accept my deepest—”
“No!” Blake snapped, pulling away from her. “No condolences, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then what can I do?”
“I want you to find her,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re the only one who can.”
He couldn’t be serious. The entire world was looking for that plane; what could she do?
“Blake, I–I can’t, there are—”
“No!” Blake almost yelled. “You don’t understand. She isn’t dead. She can’t be! I’d feel it in here!” He pounded his chest above his heart with his closed, white-knuckled fist. “I’d know it!”
She took a step forward as to attempt to console him. He was crazy with pain over the loss of his wife, and he wasn’t thinking straight. She wished Steve were here; he’d know what to say and do to help Blake. She was going to have to do her best, and hope her best was good enough.
“Blake,” she spoke softly, “such a loss can be devastating, I understand. And I am here for you. Why don’t we go to Tom’s, get you a hot cup of soup, and help you get some rest?”
His eyes shot her a glare filled with disappointment.
“Not you too! Not after everything we’ve been through together, Alex! Do you think I lost my mind? Is that it?”
She shrugged a little, involuntarily, and felt her cheeks catch fire. “Blake, I—”
“No, I’m still sane, Alex, and I am appealing to that fantastic brain of yours! You who found a ten-billion dollar, money-laundering scheme hidden so deep inside my bank’s business systems that no one else had managed to find it before. I am pleading with my friend, Alex Hoffmann, the best investigator I have ever met, to just hear my case for a minute. Can you do that for me? Give me one minute of unbiased attention?” Blake’s pleading voice reached a higher pitch, while he still struggled to stifle heavy sobs. “Do you still trust me that much?”
She considered his words, embarrassed she’d jumped to conclusions and dismissed Blake so quickly. She shouldn’t have made that error in judgment; she knew better.
She managed to look at Blake, unable to hide her embarrassment. “I am so sorry, Blake, please forgive me. Can we please start over?”
He let out a pained, long sigh. “Don’t apologize. I sometimes think I’m crazy, too. But believe me, she isn’t dead. She can’t be. Oh, God…”
“OK, let’s talk. I am all ears. Why do you think she’s not dead? The authorities confirmed the plane went down over the Pacific.”
“I’d feel it…I know I would,” Blake said quietly, looking Alex in the eye with an unspoken plea to believe him, to trust his call. “And…and I had a dream right about the time her plane went missing.”
“A dream?” Alex couldn’t hide the doubt in her voice.
“Yes, a dream, and I know just how this sounds. But Adeline and I are very close; we’re what people refer to as soul mates. We’ve always had our ways to feel each other’s pain, stress, or fear.”
She didn’t dismiss the thought so easily the second time. Although the science behind it was blurry to say the least, there were numerous documented cases of such mental connections existing between closely connected human beings, able to transcend thousands of miles.
She decided to believe that was a possibility in Blake and Adeline’s case. Steve would have been a great asset to her right now…damn it! And Blake wouldn’t move from the damn tarmac. No way could she get him to Steve. She refocused her attention.
“What was the dream about? Was she saying anything to you?”
“She said she loved me, and then…” Blake almost choked, “well, I don’t know how to describe it, but the message was that I shouldn’t let her go. I shouldn’t give up.”
“OK, good enough for me,” Alex replied, her usual analytical self taking over. “What do you think I could do, that the authorities aren’t doing already?”
“Believe,” Blake replied. “Believe that it’s possible that plane didn’t crash into the Pacific. During the past 48 hours, I’ve been traveling like crazy, speaking with everyone. Airlines, the FAA, no one would even listen to me. It doesn’t matter who I am, or how much money I’m willing to spend. No one even wants to hear me out; they all dismiss me and recommend some shrink or another, after expressing countless regrets.”
She blushed again and looked at the tarmac for a minute, trying to hide it, disappointed with herself at how narrow-minded she’d been about the whole thing. She’d done the exact same thing the airlines had done. In her mind, she had wished she had a shrink present to help Blake. Must be the early hour to blame for her atypical shortsighted logic. Forget Steve. Blake was there to see her.
“OK, let’s talk scenarios,” she managed to articulate.
“Yes! Thank you!” Blake said, hugging her tightly. “I knew you would hear me out. What do you want to know?”
Where the hell do I even start, Al
ex asked herself bitterly.
“Umm…” she said, “what do you think could have happened to that plane?”
“I don’t know,” Blake answered with sadness, “but I just need you to consider the possibility that it hasn’t crashed in the Pacific, and start looking for it.”
“That I can do,” Alex replied, “but why do you think that’s even possible? You think the entire world that’s looking for it is just plain wrong? Everyone’s looking for it in the middle of the Pacific.”
“Where they fail, you can succeed. I have that much confidence in you, Alex.”
Oh…OK, no pressure, she thought, a little flattered by his confidence, yet feeling overwhelmed.
“Blake, I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted.
“Maybe…but you’ll think of something. I’m willing to bet a ton of money that by the end of today you’ll have a few ideas. Only you can find her.”
She smiled. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Blake. I hope I’ll earn it.”
“You will, and I will help you. Any resource you need, you got it. All my money, all my influence, you can use at will, no questions asked. I will sign blank checks, I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Just name it,” he confirmed.
“Park your plane somewhere and let’s go to Tom’s. I need breakfast, and I need to think. You need to come with me,” she added, feeling embarrassed for manipulating him like that. “Just in case I have questions or I need resources, or something.”
“Done,” he replied, then turned toward the plane and signaled his pilot.
Minutes later, he was fast asleep in Alex’s car, as she drove on the Pacific Highway, heading north in the dawn’s brisk light.
...16
...Sunday, May 1, 10:49AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Four Days Missing
The massive door unlatched noisily, startling them.
One of the armed men walked in, his weapon hanging loosely, strapped on his shoulder. It was the one they called One-Eye. He still had both his eyes, but a long, purplish scar extended from his left ear to under his left eye, putting a deep ridge into his cheek, making them wonder how his eye survived that terrible knife wound.
